


Shall I Stare With Wonder

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angry blow jobs, Angst, I'm sorry for this, Infidelity, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, but a happy ending, lil bit of guilt and bitterness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6271864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Harry doesn't want to forgive him, and Draco doesn't know how to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I Stare With Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Dralentine's Day 2016 on tumblr. I should say that this is truly not a traditional Valentine's Day story, though it was in fact written with lots of love for my giftee (daughterjudy) and all the wonderful Drarry shippers out there! <3 Thanks to calypso-mary for giving this a look-over~

He’d almost managed to forget about it all—until his calendar reminds him on the first of February that the most dreadful day of the year is fast approaching. Valentine’s Day, the day of hearts and flowers and reddened fucking mouths. The anniversary of the day he found Draco Malfoy, his (former) lover, on his knees for a blond-haired twink in the loo of a Ministry ballroom.

Mouths had been reddened, bloodied that day indeed.

Harry’s tempted for a brief moment to rip apart his calendar and forget he’d ever remembered, but his secretary would probably kill him. Not to mention Hermione, who’d charmed the calendar for him in the first place. It’d been a gift for his 25th birthday, a gift so like Hermione that he tended to smile whenever he saw it. But not today. Probably not for the entire month, in fact. He’ll most likely just glower at it in silence.

He’s had issues with his temper ever since the war. Unresolved trauma side effects, his therapist tells him. (He personally thinks it’s a side effect of never really being allowed to grow up, but he hasn’t gotten around to telling her that yet.)

After that Valentine’s Day, he’d thought about quitting therapy, simply because Draco—Malfoy—was the one to convince him to go in the first place. But Ron and Hermione wouldn’t let him quit, even though everything that reminded him of Draco felt like a sucker punch in the gut. They said he needed it then more than ever, and looking back on it, he feels inclined to agree.

He wonders if he should book an extra session this month. But no, he’ll be _fine_. Really. All he needs to do is make sure he avoids Malfoy, avoids Malfoy’s friends, and stays away from all the lovey-dovey Valentine’s shite.

Eyeing his calendar (and studiously avoiding _that date_ ), he takes a deep breath and sighs it out through his nose. He has a meeting in half an hour, and it wouldn’t do for the Deputy Head Auror to arrive in a snit, now would it?

-x-

He ruins his newly made resolution the very next day, because Draco Malfoy is sitting in Harry’s office chair, fingers steepled and looking like a Kneazle who’d just caught a very tasty fish.

Harry turns around and walks right back out of the room. Who cares if it’s his own office? He can’t deal with this right now. Nor ever.

“Potter, wait!” he thinks he hears, and despite the unruffled mask he’s permanently attached to his face, Harry feels a throb of pain upon hearing the other man’s voice.

Malfoy had always called him Potter, even when they were dating, even when Harry had begun to call him ‘Draco’. ‘Harry’ was reserved for the times when no one else was watching, when they were alone in bed and so in love that it was impossible to hide it all.

That afternoon, Harry does something he’s never done of his own will before, and arranges to take two weeks of vacation time.

-x-

The only reason he bothers opening the door is because he thinks it’s Hermione, probably to question him about his sudden extended vacation. But he should’ve known better. She and Ron always Floo instead.

There stands Malfoy, still dressed in his work robes, looking as posh and polished as ever. Nothing like Harry, who’s wearing trackies and an old ratty t-shirt. They’re nothing alike.

And somehow, they’re everything alike.

“Don’t close the door—“ Malfoy puts his foot in the door even as Harry tries to push it shut.

Harry sighs. “Leave.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!” The high arches of Malfoy’s brows crinkle in frustration.

Maybe if he lets him say his piece, he’ll leave of his own accord.

Harry opens the door.

Stepping in and looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself, Malfoy shuts the door and leans against it. “Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, swallowing down the sour taste of hurt that threatens to leap out of his chest. “What do you want?”

“Short version or long version?”

“Short.”

Malfoy looks away. “You.”

Harry lunges at him.

Merlin, he’d forgotten the rush, forgotten how it’d felt to truly express his anger. He remembers it now in the simple act of connecting his fist with Malfoy’s face. The impact travels through his arm, flesh on flesh hiding bone, and Malfoy stumbles from the force of it.

And then Malfoy’s shoving him against the wall, trapping him so that he can’t move his arms, even though he doesn’t stop struggling.

“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy says, a familiar glint of frustration in his eyes.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Harry responds snidely.

Malfoy looks more hurt than Harry expected him to.

Using the moment to his advantage, Harry spins out and away from the wall, away from Malfoy. He should walk away, right now. He really should.

“Am I allowed to explain myself, now?” Malfoy’s voice comes from behind him after a few tense moments of indecision.

“Seems like that’s a year overdue,” Harry says bitterly.

“Because you wouldn’t let me!”

“Well maybe you should have kept your prick in your pants!” Harry turns to face him, fingers clenching in an effort not to reach for his wand and hex Malfoy’s balls off.

This time it’s Malfoy who lunges toward him, who starts the struggle. He’d forgotten how this felt, all elbows and fists and blooms of pain. It’ll all heal, which is more than he can say for his emotions.

They’re struggling, panting, locked in a vicious embrace of tensed arms. “For the record, I never took my prick out,” Malfoy growls, as if it changes anything.

“What’s the fucking point of cheating, then?” Harry pushes him against the wall, aiming for a punch, and Malfoy subverts it by ducking and then pressing himself against Harry so that he can no longer get any leverage.

“I don’t…” Malfoy shakes his head, and that’s when Harry realizes…

Malfoy’s hard. They’re so close, and Malfoy’s prick is there against Harry’s leg, and all of a sudden Harry _wants_ , even though it’s ridiculous and he shouldn’t even be thinking about sex right now. It must be the adrenaline, or—or _something_ , because otherwise wanting Malfoy now would mean that he’s wanted Malfoy all along, even after he watched him deep-throat another man’s cock.

Harry’s not right in the head, is he? And obviously Malfoy isn’t either. Because they shouldn’t want each other like this. Harry shouldn’t be feeling so fucking turned on just from having Malfoy’s body pressed against him, but Malfoy smells like he always had for the whole three years they’d dated, and his face is right there. He could kiss him. He wants to kiss him, even though he doesn’t _want_ to want to kiss him, not at all.

He doesn’t kiss him. But he does press his hips forward, interrupting Malfoy’s feeble “I don’t know if I know how to explain it…” and Malfoy’s eyes grow wide. His eyes are too pretty, a grey like the clouds when it’s just about to snow, and Harry knows this is probably the dumbest thing he’ll ever do. But he does it anyway, because he _wants_.

“Suck me off, then, if you liked it so much.” He means the words to hurt, and Malfoy does flinch, but Harry’s voice is raspy with emotion and hurt and the infuriating wanting and it doesn’t come out as harsh as he wants it to.

Harry can feel Malfoy’s chest against him as he breathes once, twice. “Okay,” Malfoy says.

And he gets to his knees.

He pulls Harry’s clothing down and out of the way, and Harry’s chest stutters a breath, because he’s never quite gotten over the way Malfoy’s face looks when they’re about to fuck—it’s the only time his guard’s ever truly down. He looks almost reverent, like he’s fortunate to be here, fortunate to be touching Harry like this.

It occurs to him that Malfoy shouldn’t still be looking at him like this, especially after a year full of nothing between them. But Malfoy’s licking his lips and leaning towards Harry’s cock, thumbs digging into Harry’s hips, looking like this is exactly what he’s always wanted.

And then Harry’s gut drops out from under him, because _Malfoy’s still in love with him, isn’t he?_

Malfoy chooses that moment to put his lips to Harry’s cock, to suck him in and down, down, down. Harry scrabbles at the wall behind him, looking for handholds, for something to anchor him to the earth in the face of all of this madness. He can’t think. Malfoy still loves him. Malfoy’s sucking his cock, because Harry asked him to, and Malfoy still loves him.

But if Malfoy still loves him, why did he have to throw this all away?

Harry’s hands slide into Malfoy’s hair of their own accord, and the blond moves faster, trapping Harry in the wet heat of his mouth again and again. His tongue presses against the underside of Harry’s cock with every pass, his eyes half lidded and cheeks reddened.

Malfoy. Malfoy.

Draco, Draco, _Draco._

What is he _doing_? What are _they_ doing?

Harry’s afraid he doesn’t know.

Watching Draco, seeing his eyes flicker up to meet Harry’s, seeing them flutter shut afterwards, seeing the evidence that Draco is _somehow_ probably still in love with him—it all starts to hurt too much, so Harry turns his head to the side. The sun’s setting in the living room at the end of the hallway, casting golden shadows that don’t quite touch the two men where they stand in the hall. It’s a happiness that’s just far enough away as to be untouchable.

And then Draco flicks his tongue _just so_ , and Harry hadn’t meant to look at his face when he came but he can’t seem to help it. He chokes out a sob at the rush of pleasure and emotion that rushes over him, tightening his fingers in the thin wisps of Draco’s hair and _wishing_ —he doesn’t know what for, exactly. That this could be real, that Draco had never changed everything between them, that Draco was still his.

It’s not possible. He watches Draco sit back on his heels, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand, and he knows it’s not possible.

But yet.

He’d thought Draco would get up and leave, but a minute passes and Draco hasn’t left yet. Harry’s still slumped against the wall, breathing roughly, pants around his ankles. That won’t do, so with a little effort, he heaves himself into a proper standing position, righting his clothing and not knowing at all what to do next.

“Why’d you take off from work?” Draco’s voice startles him—it’s rough and sounds just like sex.

“So I wouldn’t have to see you,” Harry answers truthfully, staring at the dusty floorboards beneath his feet. He wonders if he’s hurt Draco again, but then he realizes that he’s starting to care again and almost flinches. He doesn’t want to care, he doesn’t. Really.

Draco sighs through his nose, and Harry looks up at him just in time to watch his walls come up. He can see it almost as vividly as if it were tangibly happening, can see Draco’s eyes shutter and his lips tighten. “You’re not going to take me back, are you, Potter?”

Harry opens his mouth. He closes it. Yesterday, the answer would have been an immediate ‘no’. But now he doesn’t know, not with Draco right in front of him. And that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it? Draco is always unfairly infiltrating his senses, always infuriating Harry and making him laugh and making him want more more _more_ all at once. And now Draco’s pulling away, and Harry can’t tell if he wants him to or not.

“If I said no… you would leave me alone,” Harry says, and it’s not a question.

Draco nods anyway.

“So then… what if I said I didn’t know what I wanted?”

“I’d want you to make a decision,” Draco says promptly.

“I can’t yet.”

Brows furrowing, Draco crosses his arms. “Why the fuck not?” he mutters.

Harry’s anger flares again, from where it had been seething under the surface of his skin, and he lashes out. “Why the hell do you care? What do you _want_? It’s been a _year_ , Draco.”

“That didn’t stop you from wanting to suck me off, Potter,” Draco spits back.

Harry slams his fist into the wall behind him. “Would you answer the fucking question?”

“I wanted you to tell me to go away!” Draco nearly shouts, and Harry falters.

The air is quiet for a moment.

“You… you did?” Harry finally mumbles, feeling like the very earth is shifting beneath him.

 “Yeah,” Draco says, and sighs. “I thought… maybe it’d be easier to move on.” He looks like the admission pains him, and Harry knows it to be true—Draco had always hated revealing the thoughts behind his actions in so many words. He’d always said that it put a bad taste in his mouth.

“I thought you’d already moved on,” Harry shrugs. “Why would my answer change anything?”

Draco’s mouth tightens, and he shakes his head, taking a step toward the door. That’s it. This is over, and Draco’s fleeing. Harry doesn’t know why he’d expected anything different.

He closes his eyes and listens to the steps of the man he’d once loved leaving for the last time.

Except.

He waits to hear the door open, but it doesn’t. Turning to look, he finds Draco just standing there, staring at him over his shoulder.

“Are you happy, Potter?” he asks, his posh tone somewhat diluted with emotion.

Harry shrugs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Have you…” Draco sighs as if he doesn’t really want to continue, but he does nonetheless. “Have you been seeing anyone?”

Oh. Merlin. Harry wishes he could say yes, that he could look any less pathetic in the face of his former lover, but the truth is that he’s just been wallowing in his unhappiness, hiding it all behind work and well-timed therapist appointments. “…No,” he admits.

Draco’s brows furrow. “Why not?”

“What’s it to you?” Harry crosses his arms defensively.

“I’m curious,” Draco shrugs it off. “Have you not gotten laid at all?”

“I just haven’t been able to find anyone!” Harry says, even though he knows it’s halfway to being a lie because he hasn’t bothered looking in the first place.

Draco eyebrows shoot up. “Look, Potter... Do you need help?” he asks frankly.

“What do you mean, help?”

“Help finding a lay. Or a boyfriend. Either of the two.”

“And you’d help me… why?” Harry says, skeptical.

Draco leans against the door behind him, looking more casual than he has for the entire time he’s been here. “Because it’s practical. I know what you look for in partners, and I’m also much better than you at weeding out the bullshite.”

Harry stares at him blankly.

“You know, the people who only want to talk to you because you’re famous… hello? Potter?” Draco raises his eyebrows, waving a hand in the air as if to catch Harry’s attention.

Shaking his head firmly, Harry squints at him incredulously. “You know what? No. I’m not falling for your ploys, you know.”

Draco straightens, losing his casual stance, gaining back his guardedness. “Ploys?”

“You’re just trying to win me back,” Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised you tried something so transparent. You’re usually cleverer than that.”

Draco raises his hands in defense. “I’m not! Honestly, Potter. I’m not groveling.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m helping you get laid. Something which, if I’m remembering ten minutes ago correctly, you wouldn’t say no to.”

“And this would mean what, going bar crawling? Tromping through the gay nightlife like we’re best mates?” Harry tries to continue spouting words that would convey the complete ridiculousness of the situation, but it’s so absurd that he’s left spluttering indignantly.

“Well, yes!” Draco looks mildly offended.

“That’s…” Harry shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “…Fine. That’s fine. Whatever, Draco.”

…Wait. What? The words had just fallen out of his mouth, coming from who knows where, and he fiercely wants to take it back. This is just… ridiculous! He doesn’t want to _see_ his ex-lover, let alone spend _time_ with him, right?

Right…

Or so he tells himself.

Draco raises a thin brow. “Huh. Really.”

Harry opens his mouth to tell him to forget about it, but Draco has already pulled his planner from the pocket of his robes and is thumbing through it. “Draco—“

“Friday at nine all right?”

Harry stops, closes his eyes, and considers it.

On one hand, he can’t _believe_ he’s even thinking about it in the first place. Despite what Draco says, Harry’s sure that Draco’s going to try to make a move on him somehow. Or just plain seduce him, now that he thinks about it—Draco had always been good at that…

But Draco had _cheated_. And he hasn’t had any excuses for himself either—not that Harry had expected him to. Draco had hurt him far more than Harry would have thought possible.

But…

But.

Even with all of the evidence that this is undoubtedly a bad idea, Harry still wants to say yes.

_Why?_

“Look,” he starts. “Just so you know… I don’t want to fall in love with you again, all right? So you aren’t allowed to seduce me, or to use this as an excuse to—“

“Potter?”

Harry looks up to see Draco fiddling with a quill that he seems to have procured from thin air. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“…Oh.” Harry feels slightly embarrassed.

“Friday. Yes?”

“…Yeah.”

Amid thoughts of _oh God, what have I done_ , Harry watches as Draco gives a casual wave and steps out the door.

-x-

Harry swears that the actual ramifications of making that decision hadn’t truly hit him until just this moment, when Draco’s supposed to arrive at his doorstep in five minutes (as per an earlier owl) and Harry’s still scrambling to find something to wear. He’s using his wand to flick through his closet, sending various garments zooming in for closer inspection and discarding them when they don’t meet his needs. Even with half a week to consider the situation, he didn’t even _think_ about planning out his clothing; his mind had been consumed by whether or not willingly going to the bar with one’s (possibly still smitten) ex could ever be a good idea.

As he’s scowling at a pair of heart-patterned boxers that he doesn’t remember buying, the doorbell rings. Damnit, the git’s early. Well, there’s no help for it, so Harry shrugs on a shirt that’s currently dangling in the air at his side and dashes downstairs.

“You’re wearing _that_?” Draco says almost immediately upon opening the door, looking scandalized.

Harry looks down at the shirt he’s wearing—and since when has an item of clothing like this ever been sold in stores? It’s a cross between a dress shirt and a V-neck, all done in a horrible plaid, and Harry has a horrible suspicion that the tag in the back has the Wheezes logo embroidered on it. “Er… no, I suppose not.”

“For Merlin’s sake, Potter. Are you even trying to pull?” Draco pushes past him and starts toward the stairs, but he’s speaking in a fond tone, and Harry’s surprisingly unoffended by it.

“Of course I am,” he replies anyway, following Draco up the stairs and back into his own room. Draco begins looking through his closet, taking much less time deliberating on each article than Harry had and making small noises of displeasure along the way.

Harry’s starting to think that he should have just asked for Draco’s advice in the first place when Draco turns and asks over his shoulder, “Where’s the jacket I gave you?”

Oh. Fuck. “I, uh…”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“I sort of burned it,” Harry admits with no small amount of shame.

A pained expression flashes across Draco’s face, but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a look of incredulousness. “That was a perfectly good jacket, you know. And really, burning it? Why didn’t you just donate it?” He turns back to the closet and resumes his muttering, and Harry realizes that Draco’s forgiven him.

He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected them to have a row, and for Draco to storm out of the house…  At least, that’s what he had been imagining when he burned the damned thing. It had been an anniversary present—or, a birthday present? He can’t remember. All he could remember had been the rare look of adoration Draco had flashed him when he put it on for the first time, and he’d tried to smother that memory in flames.

It hadn’t worked, of course.

“Here, put this on,” Draco tosses him a dark green button down in a shade that Hermione has called ‘jade’. Harry briefly considers leaving the room to change, but in all honesty that would be stupid (because Draco has seen him in various stages of undress hundreds of times), so he simply shucks off the plaid monstrosity and dons the jade shirt.

“This okay?” he says, frowning down at the ridiculously complicated fasteners— _now_ he remembers why he never wears this one.

“Yes—wait, leave the top two undone, and roll your sleeves up, for Merlin’s sake—okay.” Draco looks him up and down then, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Passable,” he finally pronounces, though he’s wearing a slight smirk and _fuck_ , he looks sexy. Even in a casual black v-neck, he seems almost elegant, and Harry…

He’d forgotten how attracted he was to Draco. He’d been blocking it out, avoiding it at all costs, but seeing Draco again is like casting an Aguamenti with too much power—it sends messy emotions pouring out all over the floor.

Too late, he realizes he’s been staring at Draco, but Draco either doesn’t notice or chooses not to comment.

-x-

“This place is busier than I remember it,” Harry half shouts, eyeing all the men packed onto the dance floor.

“It’s gotten more popular since we’ve last been,” Draco shouts back, tilting his head toward the bar. Harry wonders at the strange clenching in his throat at the usage of ‘we’, and then wonders if Draco’s been coming here without him.

He’s spent so long avoiding thinking about the break-up that he’d never even tried to imagine what Draco was doing while Harry was moping around. Now, though, the curiosity is eating away at him, but they’re not here to talk about Draco…

“Two double firewhiskies on the rocks, please,” Harry hears Draco tell the bartender, and he wants to feel affronted that Draco’s taken the liberty to order for him—this isn’t a _date_ , after all—but he can’t bring himself to care.

“So, first things first,” Draco says as they sit down with their drinks. “What are you looking for?”

“Hmm?” Harry says, having lost the plot somewhere along the way.

“In a date,” Draco intones slowly, raising his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his glass. “Ah, that’s nice,” he swirls it around. “You know, do you want a quick fuck? Do you want to go home with someone? Do you want an actual suitor?”

Oh. Right. That is why they’re here, isn’t it? “Er…”

“Please tell me you’ve thought about this.”

“Of course I have!” Harry blurts immediately.

“Right…” Draco snorts, but seems to let it go. “Well think now, then. What do you want out of tonight?”

Harry takes a sip of his whisky so he has time to think, staring down into the amber liquid as if it has the answers he needs. He’s only really been thinking about the consequences of seeing Draco again; the thought of actually finding someone else tonight had inconveniently refrained from crossing his mind. “Well… I wouldn’t mind getting laid, I guess, but I wouldn’t mind having an actual date either… er… I’m not interested in a quick jaunt in the loo, though, you know?”

Draco’s face flushes bright red.

 _Oh._ “Shite, sorry,” Harry mumbles, feeling guilty for the inadvertent quip.

“No, I deserved that,” Draco shrugs, taking another sip of whisky. “Well, there’s a man over there who looks about your type. You should try and ask him to dance,” he recovers surprisingly quickly, and Harry wonders if he’s just burying his hurt inside.

“I’m shite at dancing,” Harry reminds him, nonetheless eyeing the tall man with light brown hair that Draco had pointed out.

“I know. It’d be fun to watch,” Draco says, and smirks.

Harry scowls good-naturedly. “I thought you were trying to help me, not ruin my dating aspects for life.”

“I—“ Draco starts, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“I said, never mind. Anyway, just go over and talk to him. His friend just left for the loo.”

“How can you tell they’re just friends?” Harry asks, deciding to let Draco’s slip of the tongue slide.

“They’ve shown no signs of affection toward each other, I’ve been keeping tabs. Besides, the other one’s been eyeing up the bartender since we sat down.”

Harry hides a smile because Draco’s inadvertently taking his work home with him; Draco’s division of the MLE is responsible for investigating crime scenes and carrying out interrogations. The Noticing Things Department, Harry’s always called it. Draco’s only gotten better at picking up the subtleties of human interaction over the years. “Okay. I’ll talk to him,” he says, pushing his chair back and picking up his glass. He might as well try, after all. “Are you going to dance?”

Draco shrugs. “Not in the mood, really. Don’t mind me, though,” he leans back casually.

“All right,” Harry stands. “But, er, aren’t…” Harry swallows the sudden lump that’s formed in his throat. “Aren’t you going to try to pull, too?”

“What?” Draco looks surprised. “Me? I wasn’t planning on it. Really, though, don’t pay me any mind, Potter. Go out there. Have some fun,” he winks.

So Harry goes, flees from the sudden stuttering of his heart that manifests from seeing Draco’s smile. Halfway across the aisle, he realizes he’s not at all nervous about chatting up a perfect stranger, which is an abnormality in itself because he’s awful at flirting and he knows it. By the time he’s wondering why he’s not more anxious, he’s already standing beside the tall man’s chair.

“Hi,” he starts, and the man turns to look at him. “Fancy a drink?”

“No, I have one,” the man says, his voice carrying the bright tones of an American accent. “But you can take a seat if you’d like,” he smiles.

And it’s nice, it really is. Harry rarely has the time or energy to speak with people who aren’t Ron or Hermione or his therapist or part of his department at work. Draco had always been the one to convince him to go out, and it’s one of the things he’s actually admitted to missing since Draco had stepped out of his life.

And now Draco’s back in it, and he doesn’t know what to think. What if Harry goes home with this man—Kyle, his name is—tonight? Will Draco simply fade back into the background? Or will they become friends instead? It’s an odd thought, and it must have shown on his face because Kyle pauses the story he’s telling for a moment.

“No, do go on,” Harry encourages, flicking his eyes over to Draco for probably the fifth time in the past five minutes.

“Nah, it’s all right, man. I think you better go back to your boyfriend. Besides, my bud’s coming back,” Kyle gestures over his shoulder. “You have a good night though, yeah?”

 _Boyfriend_.

Harry feels his heart constrict involuntarily. He accepts the man’s handshake and attempts a weak smile, but inside he’s reeling. “How… H-how’d you know?” he chokes out, trying for lighthearted but most likely just sounding sad.

“It’s pretty obvious. You can’t keep your eyes off of each other,” Kyle grins knowingly, waving Harry off as his friend arrives.

Off of _each other_. So Harry wasn’t the only one staring…

He trudges back toward Draco, who looks surprised. “What happened?” Draco asks, playing with his now empty whisky glass. “I saw you get severely friend-zoned just now, I’m afraid,” he smirks.

Harry shrugs, vowing not to mention what had happened just now to anyone, ever. “We didn’t click, I guess.”

“Ah. Shame, Potter. You would have been an attractive pair, you know,” Draco says, a contemplative look in his eye.

Flushing, Harry looks down into his own nearly empty glass, deciding it would be best just to down it all now and analyze the remark later. “Er, thanks. You know… maybe this just isn’t the night, you know?”

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Are you sure? You can’t let rejection get you down, Potter!” He sets his glass down with a heavy clink on the table for emphasis.

_You can’t let rejection get you down._

Harry needs… he needs to think. And he needs to be sober while he does the thinking. But he’s really truly curious, so he asks, “Have you gotten laid a lot, then?”

The lightheartedness drains out of Draco’s face, but he doesn’t look angry. Just—disappointed, Harry supposes. “You know, Potter, I forgot how much of a lightweight you are. Maybe it’s better to just get you home.”

Merlin, he’s offended him. Harry feels sick. “All right,” he agrees.

They Floo to their separate homes with no more than a casual goodbye.

Harry then sits by the unlit fireplace in his sitting room, lost in his thoughts, going over all of the parts where he had been unbearably awkward over and over again. He’s pretty sure he’s just bolloxed up any possible chance of a reconciliation with Draco, and he’s not sure if he’s happy about that or not.

The clock on the wall, gifted by Mrs. Weasley, chimes a tinkly little tune at midnight, and Harry realizes just how long he’s been sitting there. Worse, his arse is sore, so he decides it’s probably better to mull things over more in bed rather than sitting out in the floor. He doesn’t quite make it to the staircase, though, before he hears a tapping on his window.

Feeling a cautious revival of hope, he spells the window open, making way for a pretty brown owl to perch on the hall table. Summoning a treat for her, he watches her fly away into the night before trudging up the stairs.

He waits until he’s warm in his bed to look down at the note, too afraid of a rejection and marveling at the fact that he’s afraid at all.

 _You can’t let tonight be the standard for the rest of the year._  
_Let’s do this again next weekend. Saturday?_  
 _Maybe you’ll finally have some luck getting lucky, Potter._

It’s not a rejection. It’s not signed, either, but it’s Draco’s loopy handwriting. It’s the familiar script that he sees sometimes on paperwork across the MLE, that he used to see on grocery lists and reminders and one time, a love letter written mostly in jest that Harry had nonetheless hidden in the back of his closet.

It’s still there, probably.

It’s when he feels the relief that he hadn’t decided to burn that, too, that he realizes that he still…

He still…

He doesn’t want to think the words yet, because if he does, he won’t be able to take it back. And then there’s the part about not having any clue at all about what to do in this sort of situation, and it’s while he’s in the middle of stressing about it all that sleep comes and takes him away.

-x-

Saturday had been largely a blur of stress and half-hearted plans and questions that he should probably ask before too long, but Sunday nights are nights at Ron and Hermione’s. Harry sits through dinner and smiles and laughs and plays with baby Rosie, all the while wishing he could say something about Draco. But then they would worry, and that’s the last thing Harry wants—their status as parents takes enough of a toll on them to begin with. He can see it in the bags under Hermione’s eyes and the way Ron yawns far more often than normal.

Sometimes he regrets not having told them more about the break-up. He’d tried to act normal around his two best friends—they’d been working on conceiving Rosie then, and they’d been almost as tired as they seem now. He hadn’t wanted to worry them then either, so he’d told them that he and Draco’d had a huge row and that neither of them had wanted to fix it. Now though, he’s glad that he hadn’t made a fuss over the whole thing, because he’s sure they wouldn’t approve of his current actions if they really knew the pain he’d gone through last year.

He’s not sure they would approve now, either, but that’s another story.

He thinks he’s gotten by on his admittedly poor acting skills until he’s just about to Apparate and Hermione stops him.

“Harry, wait,” she says, cocking her ear to listen for Ron’s footsteps as he takes Rosie up to bed. “Have you… Have you been speaking to Draco again?”

Harry’s eyes widen. “What? Why—I mean, how…?” he asks, wondering how it’s possible that she knows _already_.

“Well, it’s obvious that you’ve met someone. You’re just… lighter, I suppose. But I can tell you’re also stressing out about it, and there hasn’t been anyone new in you and Ron’s department at work, and you don’t go out much either so I didn’t really see you having a good chance to meet anyone. And it’s been about a year since the break-up, hasn’t it? It’s a little far-fetched, I guess, but it’s the only solution that made sense and I just want to make sure you’re okay,” she explains, her worry shining through in the rambling nature of her sentences.

“I… yeah, we’re talking, I guess. I mean, I don’t really know what we’re doing. But I’m making sense of it, I think, and…” he shrugs. “I’m all right, Hermione.”

She leans over and hugs him fiercely. “I know you haven’t told me everything, Harry, and I won’t make you now,” she pulls back. “Just remember that people make mistakes sometimes, including you and Draco. But they don’t have to stay mistakes forever, you know?”

He smiles at her, taking the implicit blessing from her words and hoping it’ll all turn out okay as she makes it seem. “Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“We love you, Harry. Never forget that,” she gives him a good-natured tug on the ear.

“I won’t.”

-x-

The next Saturday evening finds Harry feeling considerably better put together than his last… outing, he’ll call it, with Draco. He’d reached into the very back of his closet and found a trendy looking shirt that Ginny had brought him from her Quidditch tour in Asia, and he’s now wearing it with no small amount of pride for having thought about it.

He’s avoiding thinking about what’ll actually happen tonight, he knows. He considers flipping a coin, but he doesn’t think that would help, and he doesn’t have any Muggle money lying around anyways.

Maybe he’ll just take things as they go. If he finds someone tonight, then so be it. If not…

He steps into the Floo, having arranged to meet Draco at the bar this time, and immediately begins looking around for the other man. It’s not long before he spies the familiar blond thatch of hair near a table across the room, and he begins to make his way over.

Unfortunately, he’s not paying very much attention to where he’s going, and he doesn’t notice the other man in his path until it’s too late to prevent the collision. “Sorry about that, mate,” he mumbles automatically, feeling his cheeks heat.

“My drink didn’t spill, so no harm done,” the man smiles congenially, and Harry looks at him for the first time. He’s… attractive, very much so, with a good smile and laugh lines all around his eyes.

The man seems to notice Harry looking, and he winks cheerily. “I was just going to get a table. You can join me if you like?”

In an instant, Harry sees his future with this man. It’d be a happy one, he thinks, but…

He looks over the man’s shoulder to see Draco staring at the two of them, eyes wide. Draco, who he’d fought with and obsessed over for almost all of his life, who he’d loved so much back then… Draco looks worried. Resigned, maybe. And Harry doesn’t want to throw that away anymore.

Harry knows then that while the smiling man in front of him might represent a lovely future for some other bloke, it’s not going to be him. “Sorry,” he says easily. “I’m meeting someone, actually.”

The man’s smile doesn’t falter. “No worries,” he shrugs it off, then walks away.

And Harry goes to Draco.

“Did you just turn him down?” Draco furrows his brow, crossing him arms. “He was the definition of your type, you know.”

“He just didn’t seem… right,” Harry says, and it’s a feeble excuse but he doesn’t really care.

“Potter, I think your standards are too high,” Draco shakes his head. Privately, Harry agrees. “Whatever. Shall we get drinks?”

-x-

By the time they’re ready to leave, they’re both several sheets to the wind, so Draco suggests they walk to his flat instead of trying to Apparate or Floo.

“Hmm. I dunno. Can I have your bed for the night?”

Draco lets out a sharp laugh. “The couch will be perfectly fine for you, git.”

“Then wouldn’t it be perfectly fine for you, too?” Harry retorts with what he thinks is perfectly sound logic.

“I have a bad back,” Draco feigns being wounded, and they both burst into fits of laughter.

“C’mon. ‘M sleepy,” Harry mumbles, and they make their way out onto the chilly street. It’s an offshoot of Diagon, so the display windows illuminate their pathway nicely as they walk somewhat unsteadily in the direction of Draco’s home.

One such shop window catches Harry’s eye as he’s laughing at a joke Draco’s just told. It’s been all done up in flowers and hearts, and right at the center is an enormous bear with a bright red bow.

The thing is hideous.

Harry cracks up, and Draco sees the bear a second later and does the same. They laugh until they’re gasping for breath and Harry’s nearly leaning on Draco, so close that he can almost sense the warmth through his coat.

-x-

When Harry wakes up, he becomes cognizant of three things. One, that it’s five in the morning and he’s lying on Draco’s (admittedly quite comfortable) couch, two, that he has a hangover stronger than a _Stupefy_ , and three, that he really has to use the loo.

He takes care of the latter problem first, pleased to find that he can make his way around the flat without turning on any lights. Next comes the search for hangover potions, which he thinks… were they in the study last time? It sounds right, so he fumbles with the door handle across from Draco’s room and makes his way to the large cupboard against the wall.

He thinks the potions were in one of the smaller drawers built into the top shelf, so he starts opening them at random. The third drawer he tries to open is stuck. He gives it a good wiggle, and then it flies open with a crack—shite, he hopes he hasn’t hurt the wood…

But then he peers in the drawer, and in it is a small black box.

He knows what’s inside before he opens it. He knows it’s an invasion of privacy, but the curiosity and sickening worry combined are too strong to ignore, so he clicks the lid open and there it is. A simple silver ring, staring him in the face, making the whole world come crashing down around him.

Draco’s getting _married_.

Fuck, when was he even going to mention it? Was he just going to wait until Harry saw it in the newspaper, however many weeks from now? Who has he even been _dating_?

And what has he wanted to do with Harry, then? Was this just some game? He’d said he wanted Harry to find someone else… but Harry had truly thought it’d been something more than that.

His head feels even worse. Hangover potion. He needs one now more than ever, so he opens the drawer below the one with the ring box and finally finds the neat stash of bottles lined up in a row. He downs one, and then he sits in silence, leaning against the cupboard and staring at the box until he has to close his eyes in the face of it all.

-x-

“Potter? Potter, are you all right?”

Harry wakes up to see Draco standing above him, looking apprehensive. He looks down at his hands, and it all comes swirling back when he sees that the ring box is still there.

He wishes it had been a dream.

“Potter…” Draco says, and sighs. “…Come with me.”

Harry follows him to the kitchen, feeling numb, and watches him put the kettle on. He waits until he can barely stand it, when Draco is done pouring them both tea and has sat down across from him, and then he asks. “Who are they?”

“Pardon?” Draco’s eyes widen. He looks as tired as Harry feels.

“Who…” Harry’s voice cracks, and he points to the box on the table in front of him. “Who are you asking? I didn’t… I didn’t know you’d met someone,” his voice quiets to a whisper.

To his surprise, Draco gives a subdued laugh. “Oh, Potter…”

“What?” Harry asks, growing agitated.

“Potter, I…” Draco sighs, growing somber again. “Look. Flip the box over.”

Harry does so. There’s nothing but a date, and he opens his mouth to protest before he realizes… “This says… January of last year.”

“Yes,” Draco agrees, a melancholic expression in his eyes.

…Oh.

_Oh._

Oh, _fuck_.

“Wait… you mean…?” Harry can’t even get the words out, but Draco nods anyway.

“It was for you,” he confirms, crossing his arms around his body like he’s holding himself together.

Harry can only stare.

It had been for _him_. Draco had been about to _propose_ , and then everything had gone pear shaped, and… _Merlin_.

“I haven’t dated anyone, you know. I haven’t slept with anyone, and Merlin knows I’ve tried, but we get to the part where we’re supposed to be kissing and I just _can’t_ …” Draco’s baring himself, crying out for help, and Harry…

Harry wants to answer, he really does, but the words are sticking in his chest, refusing to free themselves from the jumble of emotions in his head.

“Potter… can I ask you something?” Draco breaks the silence after a moment with words trembling like a first year’s wand.

“Okay,” Harry agrees, because he doesn’t really have anything left to lose, after all.

“If I had asked you to marry me before… before I cheated on you… would you have said yes?”

 _Almost_ nothing left to lose. Harry looks away, tracing the wood grain of the table with his fingers, and knows the answer even as he tries to think it over logically. “I… yeah.”

“Oh, _God_ …” Draco mouths softly, and Harry looks up in surprise to see the blond’s eyes reddening. “…I fucked up. I really did,” Draco shakes his head roughly, staring down at the table.

Harry feels like screaming, with all of the pain and wishes and _could-have-been’_ s wrapped up in his chest. And Draco’s there, looking like misery’s eating him alive, and they could have been married by now if Draco hadn’t—

If _Harry_ hadn’t.

The realization hits him like a punch.

If Draco hadn’t cheated, Harry had always thought before. He had never once thought that things could have been different if he had ever thought to forgive him for it.

Sometimes their relationship wasn’t great. They had bickered and miscommunicated and accidentally snapped at each other more times than Harry can count. But Harry had stopped thinking about all the good things, all the warm cups of tea fixed just right and the way Draco’s eyes looked when Harry said something funny and the nights spent lying out on a cushioning charm and looking at the stars and—and… everything else.

Blame is a fickle mistress, it seems. It had captured him for a year, enslaving him in resentment and regret, obscuring even the idea that he could ever want Draco again. And now, with Draco crumpled in front of him, Harry doesn’t know the right answer to anything—he only knows the answer that he wants to be true.

“Draco,” he murmurs, and Draco looks up. “I…“ Well. He doesn’t actually know what to say here, does he?

But Draco looks confused and miserable, and all Harry can think to do is to fix it. So he stands up and leans over the table and kisses him.

His heart goes into overdrive because this is familiar, this is _home_ , in Draco’s lips and the taste of tea on his breath. Draco groans softly, and Harry wants it all again, wants him so badly it hurts.

But halfway into the kiss, Draco reaches up and shoves him away, and Harry staggers, caught by surprise. “What are you—“ he starts, steadying himself on the table.

“I can’t do this to you, Potter. You don’t want this,” Draco shakes his head, expression drenched in misery. It makes Harry’s heart twist, because he doesn’t want to see Draco’s face looking like that, because he fucking _loves_ him.

 _Fuck_.

He really does, doesn’t he?

He breathes two shaky breaths and grabs Draco’s wrist, because Draco looks like he’s going to run away again, and Harry can’t let that happen.

Draco tries to tug away. “You said you didn’t want to fall in love with me,” he whispers.

Harry can feel Draco’s pulse, as familiar as lying snug in bed and the sound of his lover’s breathing. “I lied.”

This time, when Harry kisses him, Draco stays.

When he does pull away, it’s only to cross to the other side of the table and pull Harry into his arms. “I really fucking missed you,” he mumbles into Harry’s hair.

“I missed you too,” Harry says, and he means it. Draco smells just like always, and it hurts to think that he’d almost given this up—that he _had_ given this up, and walked away.

“Draco…?” he murmurs, and Draco pulls back to look at him.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you…” Harry twists his mouth in discomfort, and Draco kisses him, softly and slowly until Harry relaxes into his arms.

“Why did I cheat, I presume?” Draco tilts his head, and Harry nods. “Because I was an idiot. And because I was scared to commit, I suppose. But really I was just being an idiot, and I don’t have any other reason for you, so…”

Harry looks up at him, at the man he loves, and nods. “I forgive you,” he whispers.

Draco really does look stunning when he smiles.

“Harry,” he breathes, and then they’re kissing again, soft presses of lips filled with promises and apologies and everything else that they can’t say aloud.

Harry pauses when the emotions get to be too much for him, resting his forehead against Draco’s and so, so happy to be with him again. “I’m glad there wasn’t anyone else,” he murmurs quietly.

“There never was, really. Not the way that you were.” Draco looks sideways at the box sitting on the table. “…The offer still stands, you know.”

Harry shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, because he thinks that they both need more time. This is enough for now.

“Good,” Draco says, surprising him. “I always meant to propose to you in a more meaningful way than that.”

Harry laughs. Somewhere, a clock strikes twelve. “It’s the fourteenth, isn’t it?” Harry wonders aloud. Valentine’s day, the day of hearts and flowers and… love, now. It’s a warm, wonderful thought.

“I suppose it is,” Draco says in response, the beginning of a smirk growing on his face. “I can go get that bear out of the shop window for you if you’d like.”

“Please don’t,” Harry snorts with laughter. “You’re more than enough of an ugly git for me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Draco gasps, swatting him in the arse.

Harry grins, puts a hand on Draco’s cheek, and leans in close. “Make me.”


End file.
